Plane Ride Home
by rettevronnoc
Summary: That's the really messed up thing about bohemia. We claim to love it, live it, and embrace it, but at the end of the day, we all just want a warm bed and something to eat. [PostRENT, Benny!centric]


A/N: It's all Jonathan's._

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_October 31st, 1993, 9 A.M. Eastern Standard Time_

Maureen, Joanne, Collins, Roger, Mimi, Mark—I've missed them all. It's strange, seeing them and knowing they don't see me. Crouching behind a wall in the graveyard, waiting for them to leave—how pathetic do I look? How the hell did I get myself into this situation?

I can't _believe _three years have flown by this fast. Allison's pulled me all the way to Boston—fucking _Massachusetts_. There are no artists in Massachusetts, there are no protests or hobos taking up residency in the place I'm trying to turn into a tent city. There is no Life Café or Avenue A.

_Damn_, I've missed the East Village.

Sometimes I wonder how I married someone as _stupid _as Allison. She seems smart, coming from Harvard or Yale or some snazzy little college where they usually require an I.Q. above 80. I'd be damned if she could even _spell _Yale. Muffy thinks I'm on a business trip to Chicago, connecting through J.F.K. If she knew I was going to Alphabet City, she'd probably grab a bottle of Vodka and try to "drown out the ever-burdening pain of her soul." What bullshit. That's all her days are, now; Vodka and ecstasy. And to think they all thought I was _happy_? Oh, if only they knew…

She did, though. That's why I'm coming back—to see her.

I don't remember when we were rented. Collins and I never _really _were, actually, but what else can one expect from Collins? That man…that man is a _fucking _genius. He's the only one that ever really understood; understood why I married Allison, how, when I met her, she was an artist just like us. Understood how I got sucked into the corporate world and how I got addicted to it. He and I are the only ones to ever see the necessities in life, and he understands that, unlike the rest of them, I can't pretend not to need those necessities.

Roger, Mark, Mimi, Maureen—they all think they can live without heat and water and food. I only shut off their heat and water and electricity in hopes that they'll realize they _do _need money and being an artist _won't _get them through life. No matter how many times I do it, though, they never seem to understand.

Collins finds a way to be a bohemian and still get his necessities. See? Fucking _genius_.

After Angel's funeral, when we went out for drinks, we talk about our family and how it was falling apart. Collins spoke philosophically about how things _must_ crumble before they get better. Like me, he said. That statement was my redemption.

As for the rest of them…well, I don't know. Sometimes I think that Mark just hates me because Roger does. After all, Collins and I were the original bohemians. The two who found both Mark and Roger and brought them back to the loft. We taught Mark how to survive a week with nothing but a bowl of cereal. Taught him the fundamentals of art and the beauty of _viva la vie bohéme_. _I _introduced Mark to Maureen. If anyone, I should be the fucking cow to his Indian.

…I introduced Mark to Maureen, who in turn introduced April to Roger, who in turn introduced Roger to heroin.

Maybe that's why.

I'm pretty sure that Roger only hates me because if you trace _just _far back enough, if you squint your eyes _just _hard enough…I'm the one who killed him.

He just uses the term "yuppie scum" as an excuse, because he _knows _he'd give his beloved Fender to live in a place where there's _always _a warm meal, warm house, and warm wife to come home to. Even if it were just for a day. And even if said wife was doped up on painkillers and whiskey.

That's the really messed up thing about bohemia. We claim to love it, live it, and embrace it, but at the end of the day, we all just want a warm bed and something to eat.

And Mimi hates me because Roger hates me. What the _fuck _is this—goddamn middle school? She and I were _happy_. She wasn't trashed _nearly _as much with me as she was with him. Meems was _my _escape—I could see a younger me in her; the vivacious, energetic, independent me that took me all the way from a shitsplit town in North Carolina to the dirty, grimy, _beautiful _streets of New York. I was helping her with her addiction, slowly but surely…and in helping her with her addiction, I was gaining one of my own.

I want to ask Roger how long he held Mimi the night Angel died. Maybe that'd be a nice enough blow to his ego to make him realize what a selfish, pretentious _prick _he is.

Lord knows Maureen only hates me because she needed a subject for her protest. Maureen and I grew _up _together, for Christ's sake. I _know _she doesn't _actually _hate me. It's southern tradition to always love the ones you grew up with._ You can take the girl outta' Hicksville, but you can't take the Hicksville outta' the girl._

Joanne doesn't hate me, either. She helped me out a few years ago—that's when she met Maureen for the first time. I was in a bit of a sticky situation with the guy who owned the building the loft is inside of. Needless to say, she helped me win the battle.

That makes the score 3/3. Who else is there?

…Angel.

Angel never told anyone else (except maybe Collins, because he touched on the subject that night when we went out for drinks) about her meetings with me. We'd meet in the wine cellar of the _La Fille Restaurant _downtown. It was perfect—_far _too expensive for her and _far _too cheap for me. No one would _ever _think to look for us there.

We'd talk. She'd tell me about Mimi and I'd tell her about my drug addicted wife. She'd tell me great stories about her and Collins and the rest of the gang, and I'd laugh because it made me feel like I was back with them. It made me feel like I was still part of the family.

I told her this once. She looked at me and said, "Honey…you _are_."

Angel completely understood that I wasn't doing what I was doing to be mean—I was doing it because it _had _to be done, and I'd rather it be me than some other yuppie scum. I'm still a bohemian, she told me. "An angel bohemian—one that watches over the rest of us."

Her smile lit up the room. Whenever we would talk, it was like being secured again. Secured in my being, in my life…

God, I _loved _Angel.

That brings the score to 3/4, in favor of the group liking me.

That's the only reason I'm here. The only reason I was at her funeral. The only reason I paid her hospital bills and funeral bills and church bills and whatever the hell else I could pay.

The gray tombstone I paid for is all too unfitting for such a beautiful man.

It's hard to believe she was alive and smiling a mere three and a half years ago. Last I heard, everyone else was doing fine as well. Collins was in the hospital for a month (I know because I paid his bill, too) but he got out healthier than he was to begin with. Maureen and Joanne still have the occasional fall out, but they always come back together in the end. Meems just celebrated her 23rd birthday, and Roger's 28th is coming up in March.

I cried when I heard that. Doctors told him he wouldn't live to see 25, yet here he is, racking up those years. Roger and I may not be on the best of terms, but he is still one of the best friends I've ever had.

Mark's documentary is doing well on the indie-film scene, and Maureen has staged a few protests against the Spice Girls and how their message of "Girl Power" is imposturous and sexist. "We should be fighting the metaphorical man," she says, "Not the actual one!"

Collins places a rose on the grave and kisses his hand, sprawling the fingers out on the gravestone. Mimi's there to pat his back, and the group shares a small laugh and a few hugs.

I wish I could go out there and be with them. Ask to rejoin the family. Divorce Allison, live out the rest of my life with my love for art, and embrace the remainder of my time here on earth. But, for some unknown reason, I can't.

I can't and I hate myself for it. 4/4. We're back where we started from.

When the gang clears out, I approach Angel's grave and nod my head as I always do. This is becoming a tradition for me, I guess you could say. I did it the day of her funeral, the anniversary of her death, and now the second anniversary of her death.

Rejoin the family? Embrace life and art? Maybe next year.

Mentally, I punch myself in the face. _Maybe next year_…what if there _isn't _a next year? There's not enough time to think of that now. I've only got a few moments before I risk being noticed. I can't let them see me. I can't talk to them. I'm not ready.

So, I continue with my ritual.

Nodding my head, I imagine the drag queen in all her liveliness and I place a white rose on her grave. "Let us pray. No day but today."

I wait for a moment, until that sweet _tap, tap, tap_ of her drums echo through my ear. Then, and then only, I know it's okay to leave until next year. So I do.

Rejoin the family? Embrace life and art? Well...that's something to think about on the plane ride home.


End file.
